Page 20 of People In Love
Welcome home, then, she says, before moving things along, as if the milk has lightened more than just the colour of the brew. She takes another biscuit, asks him about real things, now. About his travels and qualifications. The outdoor pursuits he’s taught, the people he’s met. When was his darkest hour, where did he get the sickest, did he fall in love with anyone, man or woman or other.
Good questions.
The sort his own mother never asks.
After half an hour – teas finished, biscuits demolished – Freya says he should probably get home. And in the hall beneath the wind chimes, he turns to Freya, who is holding out the shopping she must buy for Josie every week, standing there with her mad hair and her dungarees, something about Nora in the shape of her chin.
I’m not, he says, and stops himself.
Freya waits as he takes the shopping from her, the wind chimes stirring above their heads.
I am not in love with your daughter, he says. In case that needed … clarifying.
Freya holds his eyes; her glasses clear now. A hawk, no longer hunting.
I’m over it, he says. What I asked you to tell her, when I left.
Chimes, fading, to silence.
I should hope so, she says, eventually, though she doesn’t look him in the eye. Off with you now.
Off with me, he says, stepping out into the cold, and he hears her laughing as she closes the door behind him, his own mother waiting next door.
FIVE
All day, Freya’s questions hang over him like spiderwebs. Easy enough to ignore, but still somewhat irritating. He spends the night drifting in and out of sleep, unable to pin it on the jet lag, this time, or the alcohol. When the sun comes up he reaches for his phone and tries to send Nora a text, but who is he kidding; he’s never been great with words.
At breakfast – porridge for her, Weetabix for him – he asks his mother where it is that Nora works. She tells him she runs an art café in London, but he knows that, already. Nora has sent him pictures in the past, sometimes tells him about the workshops or pop-up exhibitions she’s hosting. Arty stuff he doesn’t really understand but sounds right up her street, calligraphy and crocheting and a feminist book club; this one time, some kind of face yoga that reduced wrinkles, which to him felt distinctlyunfeminist; not that he said so, in reply. Sounds cool, was all he said.
But where exactly in London, Bren asks Josie, and she says oh, somewhere in Cricklewood, I think. Lovely name, isn’t it? Like a place from a children’s book. He nods. Drinks the milk from his bowl then tells her he’s off to see a friend; which is true this time, he hopes, as he catches the bus to town and then a slow train into the city. Navigates the underground, which he hasn’t done since he was a teenager, feeling lighternow that he’s somewhere new, all adverts and escalators. By mid-morning he’s striding from Kilburn station towards the place with the lovely name and a few less-than-lovely pubs, a Polish deli, an ice cream parlour. Street after street of Edwardian houses. He googles art cafés in Cricklewood and there is only one, so he follows the blue arrow and by noon, he is standing outside.
And there she is, behind the coffee counter. Making coffee, which he’d not expected; he’d thought she was the programme co-ordinator or events manager or something, that she’d be out the back doing admin, but of course she’s here, sleeves rolled up, talking to a customer. Frothing milk and smiling, as she speaks.
No flower crown, this morning. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail, her face make-up free, like it always was when they were young, when the girls at his own school discovered foundation and mascara and something to intensify their eyebrows which always kind of scared him, though he never said so, pretended it was hot, like all the other guys did. Nora was only known in his circles through him; she was at the state school over the road from his grammar school; the girl with the weird eyes and weirder milf, lol, yeah, she’s all right though, he’d say, dying inside because that’s all hewouldsay. Burning with shame at himself, but not her. Never at her.
Now, though, she does not see him and he does not go inside. His excitement at seeing her has faded, and instead he feels hesitant; it hadn’t gone as planned, surprising her the first time, so he’s not sure what’s compelled him to try again. He tries to figure this out as he watches the customer take their coffee, sit at a table in the corner. Small vases on each, dried canary grass. People eating flapjacks, drinking lattes, working on laptops with their earphones in; all women wearing linen or wool or corduroy, and Nora herself is still at the counter,not even aware of his presence. Just being her, with that smile and hair and naked, Nora face, and Christ alive, she’s radiant.
But, Bren muses, what he said to Freya still stands.
You can’t be in love with someone you’ve not seen for over a decade.
And because of that, he should either walk straight in or else walk away, and it is while he is trying to decide which that Nora looks up.
Does a double take.
And Bren raises his hand, hi, hello.
She does not seem shocked, like before; remains where she is. Blinks, reaches for a cloth, wipes down the surface. Maybe she didn’t realise it was him, Bren thinks. Or worse, she did realise, and he’s messed up, again. Should’ve called.
But then she disappears behind a curtain beside the coffee bar, reappearing with a bag on her shoulder, a padded jacket over her dress. Crosses the threshold of the café – plaster flooring, the colour of unfired clay – opens the door and says hello, and Bren says it back.
You’re making a habit of this, she says, as the door closes behind her.
Turning up announced?
I was going to say blindsiding me, Nora says, but that works too.
I hoped you’d have some kind of lunch break, Bren says.
